The Radical Decision That Upended My Life
Photo by Guille Faingold
By Yasmin Fahr
My first hour on the island of Menorca, on a sunny, warm day that was slipping into night, was spent at a local swimming hole a short walk from the old port town of Ciutadella. It was the picturesque kind that incites longing and envy when viewed on social media, full of rock ledges built into cliffs and ladders leading into the warm sea. As I sat on such a platform, watching the clear, blue-green water that lapped against the rocks spraying my dangling legs, I was stunned for the first time in a long time.
A man standing at the tiny shoreline stripped off his clothes and casually walked into the water nude, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, which, in a sense, it is, but I was straight off a plane from NYC where the same action would likely have you arrested. I tried my hardest not to stare, but it was useless. I felt both curious and perplexed. Why did this seem so shocking to me, when we all have a naked body beneath our clothes? It was the first of many questions and experiences on this trip that sparked my eventual life change (or upending, depending on how you look at it).
A few days later, at a hidden cala accessed by a long, steep trail, I met a trio of naked men, ranging from their late 20s to early 70s, camping in a shelter carved into a cliff wall, likely a remnant from one of the many invasions the island experienced. Naturism, along with camping, are common there, especially in the warmer months. The youngest man, who happened to be Chris Helmsworth-level attractive, waved to me from his hammock, one muscular leg draped over the edge.
I set up a blanket on the other side of the short beach and made a noble attempt to read my book, which I quickly realized was hopeless as the younger man and I kept playing the eye contact game: locking eyes, then turning away. I watched as he walked to the water’s edge, his unruly, blond hair slightly curled where it met the deep tan of his exposed neck. I let my eyes trail down his athletic, firm body, one that naturally develops from active, outdoor days in the sun. He turned away from the water to look at me, held up a snorkel and goggles, waving them in my direction; it was an invitation to join him.
The briefest hesitation crossed my mind. Is it nuts to swim with a sexy naked stranger on an island where I don’t know a single soul? What are my parents going to say if they find my body washed up on shore?! I cast my nervous inner voice aside as the spirit of adventure snaked its way into my efficient, rule-following New Yorker brain, and I was up and on my way to him. We swam in the warm blue-green sea, him mermaid-ing through the water pointing out clusters of fish, me glancing around expecting sharks to latch onto my legs and pull me underwater.
He was from Colombia and had been living outdoors on the island for four months, camping in various calas, having met these men along the way. There was no need for him to tell me ‘how happy he was’ — he emanated ease and comfort in these stunning surroundings, blending in as naturally as the sunlight dancing on the surface of the sparkling sea. His was a life of freedom, immersed in nature. He had no social media and only used his phone once every week or two to contact his family and friends. The contrast between his relationship with his phone and mine was stark. My phone often felt like an extension of my body, always a short reach away, and I constantly felt phantom vibrations of it buzzing, ready for me to read a message, when, really, there was no one there at all.
I was on the island because I was escaping my life, which felt the opposite of free. Yes, I was exhausted from a draining work project, but overall, I was unhappy and glum. From the outside, my life looked full and thriving. I was doing well in my career, and was living in a dreamy apartment in the West Village. But I felt anything but. After a mini breakdown that involved me ugly crying in public along the West Side Highway, I decided I needed to get away. Travel has always been a way for me to gain perspective on my own life, and a trip might help me figure out what to do about my misery. Thanks to a bit of luck and perhaps fate, I cobbled together a last-minute trip at a reasonable cost a mere four days before the flight.
Author Yasmin Fahr
The day after meeting my handsome caveman, who departed for a rave in the middle of the island somewhere (I declined the invitation), I returned to the same cala, where I befriended an older woman with long, gray hair. She was also nude, sunbathing on the rocky shore, the years and sun embedded in the folds of her skin in a way that makes you admire how the beauty of time passes on the body when we let it. She retired here year-round from England, and her life was slow and simple, which suited her just fine. I couldn’t help but admire her quiet confidence and ease.
During the rest of the trip, as I explored different beaches and calas, I non-creepily observed men and women of all ages, body shapes, and sizes lounging nude on various beaches or comfortably standing and chatting with their feet in the water, still nude. The desire for a similar sense of freedom and comfort in my own natural state, without the need to have “the perfect body” (whatever that means), crept into me. If you have not done so yet, I highly encourage you to swim naked in the sea. It’s one of life’s best free gifts.
Sitting with my back against a rock, facing the sea with the warm wind rushing over me, I felt an unbridled connection with nature. It was like a dormant part of me had woken up. I wanted to be doing less of what I “should be doing” or “what was right” for my age, career, and life, and more of what kept me feeling buzzy with joy, balanced within myself, and spending time outside. I texted my friend Ian who was thinking of moving to New York and said, “Want to sublet my apartment? I want to be the naked lady on the beach!”
In the two years since, I have sold most of my belongings, save my beloved books, kitchen items, and a few pieces of clothing, and moved to Menorca alone at age 40 – without a partner or solid plan for the future, feeling only excitement and a sense of fullness as I’m discovering what life can look like at this age.
I’ve also learned that happiness does not come simply from releasing material items or moving countries (wouldn’t that be so much easier?!). Liberating myself from what made me miserable involved many internal shifts and lots of transitory steps, both good and hard, and I’m still not done. And goodness, so many life lessons. To the point where I wish I could say to the invisible forces that be, I’m tired. Can we stop now? Please?
Menorca feels like home, more than anywhere else I’ve lived or traveled, and I’ve been lucky to have done my fair share so far. And I know it’s not just the slow pace of life, stunning sea, nature, or people that draw me to it, as many other places offer similar things. I know also that it isn’t my home, no matter how much I love it. I struggled with writing this story for months, worrying that more attention would push wider the already open floodgates of attention the island is getting, stripping it of its inherent characteristics and personality, something that unfortunately happens often to popular destinations. Foreigners want to buy land, sometimes purchasing a piece of the island’s history, because they too are charmed by it, and want to make it their own, driving up prices for locals, and inevitably changing the feel of the place.
I’m aware that I’m also one of those foreigners, as I eventually hope to buy a home there where I can cook and write, and for it to be more than just a summer escape or a piece of property. I’m part of the problem, no matter how much I love it or how good my intentions. While tourism is necessary and those summer months are essential for business, the question of how to balance that with respect for the island’s residents and ways, observing and appreciating them, rather than imposing ourselves on them, is something that I don’t know the answer to, though I wish I did.
Now that I’m spending half the year there, locals often ask me, “Why are you here?” Meaning, how did I end up on this island, so seemingly different and far away from NYC. My only answer is that I fell in love with it. I usually get a silent nod of acceptance. That’s reason enough.